The Old Cataract Hotel, Aswan. Abdullah welcomes us to the Elephantine Café. We are seated at the top of a rocky outcrop overlooking a narrowing of the Nile at the Elephantine Island. Across from us, on the far bank of the Nile, lies the Nubian Desert – rolling hills of burnt sand bely the expansive desert that awaits us.
High tea arrives on a three-tiered silver platter with oriental glasses and a royal blue teapot. Without our noticing, the shadows lengthened and a soft lull of conversations develops from the tables alongside us. The sunset has an audience. It is another day of beautiful photos and many hours spent in the company of a true friend. A miniature dandelion fairy catches the lip of my cup and as I blow it into the wind I experience another moment of exhilarating happiness – what a memorable way to end my journey in Egypt.
Looking back over the past two weeks I recall overly enthusiastic children running out of houses to scream to us as we cycle by, moments of near hysteria listening to Irish banter, walking down a street feeling liberated and independent, taking photographs of shoddy bathrooms in budget hotels, music played through speakers with a crackled delay, and sheesh kebabs.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
19 January 2008 – Tasting the tarmac!
Edfu to Aswan – 117 kilometers. At about 80 kilometers the road turned into a 5 kilometre stretch of black, wet tar. My front wheel slipped to the right, I overcorrected sliding to the left, and in no time, had taken a neat duckdive into the tar! It gave new meaning to “stopping traffic!” The police car behind me erupted with a Black-taxi load-full of policemen, who rushed to my assistance with concern for my well-being! The right side of my body was quite literally painted with a tar brush!
My first fall of the trip! I have a nice little roastie on the right side of my body but I couldn’t have asked for an easier way to fall. The wet tar aided a slide that ensured that my legs didn’t get too cut up. So all is good and I have a new set of battle scars to replace my faded camel-bruised left leg!
My first fall of the trip! I have a nice little roastie on the right side of my body but I couldn’t have asked for an easier way to fall. The wet tar aided a slide that ensured that my legs didn’t get too cut up. So all is good and I have a new set of battle scars to replace my faded camel-bruised left leg!
17 January 2008 – Master hagglers!
We cycled 117 kilometers from Luxor to Edfu today. It was a long haul made longer by the three days of rest preceding it. We moved through the first 60 kilometers relatively comfortably, and after a few stops to buy a lunch of bread rolls and fruit, and a later stop to eat the said lunch, we found ourselves at 2:30 pm with 30 kilometers to go till our destination. It was then that I was greeted with my first taste of mind games. That was the longest 30 kilometers that we have done to date. As the road moved away from the lush security of the Nile, we entered a desolate patch that sets the tone for what lies ahead. It is a long road to Cape Town. We have done approximately 800 km of a 12500km journey.
The Lonely planet refers to Edfu as being a one-hotel town. We were escorted by our policemen to the hotel and told that this was that. Gareth and I took a quick look inside to see the rooms and get into a little bartering with the hotel owner. Edfu apparently knows little of cleanliness! My standard of accommodation has reached a fairly low level, and at this stage in my life, a bedroom with a door that closes and that has running water is more than acceptable. That is about the most that one could say about the room that we were shown. It was very basic, and therefore required a comparable price. We managed to get the owner down to 6 Egyptian pounds each for the night. That equates to 6p or R8! Craziness.
It turned out that Edfu is no longer a one hotel town and that the Hotel Medina, as recommended by the Lonely Planet, is actually 100 meters around the corner. So, armed with price number one, we headed off in search of a second offer. A man named Atti ushered us in and Ollie and I took a little scout of the rooms which appeared to be on a par with the former hotel. In fact the same pastel shades even lined the walls and floors, and the bathroom/shower rooms were of the same ilk. Nice. However, hotel number two boasts a solid breakfast – a sure win for a team of cyclists. He started at 25 each, we got it to 100 for the six of us. We have become master hagglers. It scares me that we are fighting over R10 each. But it’s the principle -apparently!
We took a little tour of Edfu and walked to the Temple Horus – a renowned temple in Egypt. We were told to pay 40 Egyptian pounds to enter the area simply so that we could buy a packet of crisps for 15 – retail for 3 in town. It is crazily apparent that these are tourist prices. A young waiter named Musharef decided to take it on board and agrees with us that the goods are overpriced and goes further to explain that for an Egyptian it costs 2 to visit the temple. We decide to move off in search for some dinner back in town.
I am not sure quite how it happened, but next thing I knew, I was sitting in Musharef’s living room with the rest of the team enjoying his mother’s cooking! The hospitability of Egyptians has been truly overwhelming. We were hosted to a meal of beans, soya, egg and bread and an incredibly interesting conversation with Musharef and his doctor sister. She spoke great English and proceeded to educate us in a very open manner about her faith of Islam. I have been in this country a little under two weeks and it strikes me that she is my first solid experience of a local woman. She had poise and spoke in a way that was both open and accepting. It strikes me that there are less differences about our cultures and beliefs than I had imagined, and in her words, “We are all human first.”
The Lonely planet refers to Edfu as being a one-hotel town. We were escorted by our policemen to the hotel and told that this was that. Gareth and I took a quick look inside to see the rooms and get into a little bartering with the hotel owner. Edfu apparently knows little of cleanliness! My standard of accommodation has reached a fairly low level, and at this stage in my life, a bedroom with a door that closes and that has running water is more than acceptable. That is about the most that one could say about the room that we were shown. It was very basic, and therefore required a comparable price. We managed to get the owner down to 6 Egyptian pounds each for the night. That equates to 6p or R8! Craziness.
It turned out that Edfu is no longer a one hotel town and that the Hotel Medina, as recommended by the Lonely Planet, is actually 100 meters around the corner. So, armed with price number one, we headed off in search of a second offer. A man named Atti ushered us in and Ollie and I took a little scout of the rooms which appeared to be on a par with the former hotel. In fact the same pastel shades even lined the walls and floors, and the bathroom/shower rooms were of the same ilk. Nice. However, hotel number two boasts a solid breakfast – a sure win for a team of cyclists. He started at 25 each, we got it to 100 for the six of us. We have become master hagglers. It scares me that we are fighting over R10 each. But it’s the principle -apparently!
We took a little tour of Edfu and walked to the Temple Horus – a renowned temple in Egypt. We were told to pay 40 Egyptian pounds to enter the area simply so that we could buy a packet of crisps for 15 – retail for 3 in town. It is crazily apparent that these are tourist prices. A young waiter named Musharef decided to take it on board and agrees with us that the goods are overpriced and goes further to explain that for an Egyptian it costs 2 to visit the temple. We decide to move off in search for some dinner back in town.
I am not sure quite how it happened, but next thing I knew, I was sitting in Musharef’s living room with the rest of the team enjoying his mother’s cooking! The hospitability of Egyptians has been truly overwhelming. We were hosted to a meal of beans, soya, egg and bread and an incredibly interesting conversation with Musharef and his doctor sister. She spoke great English and proceeded to educate us in a very open manner about her faith of Islam. I have been in this country a little under two weeks and it strikes me that she is my first solid experience of a local woman. She had poise and spoke in a way that was both open and accepting. It strikes me that there are less differences about our cultures and beliefs than I had imagined, and in her words, “We are all human first.”
16 January 2008 – Captain!
Last night was one of the finest nights of my life – and certainly my most authentic experience of Egypt to date.
”Captain” screeched for us to board Mary – an old wooden Faluka named after some American tourist that he had befriended some while back. I walked the gang plank and within moments, was wallowing in the sound of the sails interrupted only by the regular clicking of my camera capturing another square of time. I have started looking at the world in thumbnail view, storing memories to be revisited later.
The Faluka took us across the Nile to Banana Island – which is in essence nothing more than an enterprising Egyptian way of turning a simple banana plantation into a tourist destination. We ate bananas and drank mint tea all the time “speaking Japanese” with our “Click, Click” as Captain so aptly phrased it. The sun was slipping and as Twig caught another palm-treed silhouette, Captain squatted directly behind us. In silence, he had lifted his robe and unphased by our presence, was “making water!” Classic!
It was a spectacular evening. We gave him a “baksheesh” and were on our way home when he invited us in for a meal at his home. It was a simple home with a main living room lined with hard beds. The walls were peeling moulded turquoise, but we were welcomed in like royalty. After introductions to Captain’s wife and his children, we were hosted to a meal of falafel, bread, tomatoes and endless laughter. It was beautiful.
Another tough day in Africa.
”Captain” screeched for us to board Mary – an old wooden Faluka named after some American tourist that he had befriended some while back. I walked the gang plank and within moments, was wallowing in the sound of the sails interrupted only by the regular clicking of my camera capturing another square of time. I have started looking at the world in thumbnail view, storing memories to be revisited later.
The Faluka took us across the Nile to Banana Island – which is in essence nothing more than an enterprising Egyptian way of turning a simple banana plantation into a tourist destination. We ate bananas and drank mint tea all the time “speaking Japanese” with our “Click, Click” as Captain so aptly phrased it. The sun was slipping and as Twig caught another palm-treed silhouette, Captain squatted directly behind us. In silence, he had lifted his robe and unphased by our presence, was “making water!” Classic!
It was a spectacular evening. We gave him a “baksheesh” and were on our way home when he invited us in for a meal at his home. It was a simple home with a main living room lined with hard beds. The walls were peeling moulded turquoise, but we were welcomed in like royalty. After introductions to Captain’s wife and his children, we were hosted to a meal of falafel, bread, tomatoes and endless laughter. It was beautiful.
Another tough day in Africa.
16 January 2008 – Room 416!
The Winter Palace in Luxor is the quintessential colonial spot for gold-pocketed tourists visiting the famous archaeological sites of Luxor. Expensively clean blue swimming pools, crisp white linen, American, French and English accents, and Egyptian waiters talking of their favourite football teams.
Gareth and I wandered through the lobby into the restaurant and pool area and set our office up with the wireless connection at the pool. An orange juice turned into a much-missed Western steak roll, a few hours of idle chat and a great lounge by the pool soaking in some afternoon sun. Throughout the afternoon they would ask for our room number to which the standard response was, “No worries, we will pay cash.” It was only later when asked very directly by a more official-looking gentleman that Gareth threw out, “Room 416” without even flinching! - We had sat next to 415 at lunch.
It was about an hour later that we were very politely asked to leave as this was “for guests only”… !
Gareth and I wandered through the lobby into the restaurant and pool area and set our office up with the wireless connection at the pool. An orange juice turned into a much-missed Western steak roll, a few hours of idle chat and a great lounge by the pool soaking in some afternoon sun. Throughout the afternoon they would ask for our room number to which the standard response was, “No worries, we will pay cash.” It was only later when asked very directly by a more official-looking gentleman that Gareth threw out, “Room 416” without even flinching! - We had sat next to 415 at lunch.
It was about an hour later that we were very politely asked to leave as this was “for guests only”… !
15 January - Cultural Sensitivities
Cultural sensitivities - Buzz words for Team Egypt. There are many times that jokes which are considered seriously funny to us are considered seriously unfunny to the locals. There are many times that we believe that we are engaging in good banter and it quickly degenerates into an uncomfortable air. There are countless times a day when I consider what I am wearing – not from an appearance perspective, but in order to understand whether I am offending anyone. Very shortly we became “culturally sensitive”. We were a little slower to make a crack at some silly situation. And I covered up out of choice. However, as we cycled into Luxor, we saw endless tourists and a massive Mc Donalds advertisement, and promptly kissed “cultural sensitivities” goodbye! What a relief.
OK. Not entirely, but I felt liberated and relaxed for the first time this trip. It is amazing how the flip-side of this generates endless touts who hassle you at every turn, giving you a “gift” and then asking for payment. We found a budget hotel which cost us 20 Egyptian Pounds (R25) a night for bed and breakfast and “Bath and A/C” as advertised! It is no penthouse, but it is comfortable and affordable.
We were ushered inside and offered tea and a seat by the woman of the house. Welcoming the weight off the legs, we took a seat and enjoyed a few moments of casual chat with her in which she tried to work out the team dynamics of exactly who we were and where I fitted in. This was only confused by Niall’s explanation that Twig and I had met whilst surfing in Cape Town! She was incredibly chatty and funny, telling us of “exotic” belly dancers where one puts money in the cleavage and can get to dance. The dudes, to their credit, weren’t very interested by this. They were more interested in where the young tourist females would hang out for a little bit of a razzle!
With perfect hindsight, we discovered that she was stalling. She was making intermittent phone calls to her man and in retrospect, he must have been telling her to keep us there. The man of the house arrives! And proceeds to tell us that he has no room, but is shuffling someone around and is making a plan for the remaining three to stay at the next door hotel for the evening and then transfer over the following evening – typical Egyptian mentality! This was after we had taken a look at a three bedroom room that he was suggesting all six of us sleep in and had politely declined with sheer incredulity at the logistics of physically doing that.
Then came the smooth sell. We paid 300 Egyptian pounds for a day’s guided tour of the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens. It was impressive stuff, but the guide turned out to be little more than a babysitter as she wasn’t allowed into the tombs to explain anything. We were also seriously embarrassed by how much we had overpaid and endlessly frustrated by every Tom, Dick and Abdul trying to sell us some cheap tourist garb.
OK. Not entirely, but I felt liberated and relaxed for the first time this trip. It is amazing how the flip-side of this generates endless touts who hassle you at every turn, giving you a “gift” and then asking for payment. We found a budget hotel which cost us 20 Egyptian Pounds (R25) a night for bed and breakfast and “Bath and A/C” as advertised! It is no penthouse, but it is comfortable and affordable.
We were ushered inside and offered tea and a seat by the woman of the house. Welcoming the weight off the legs, we took a seat and enjoyed a few moments of casual chat with her in which she tried to work out the team dynamics of exactly who we were and where I fitted in. This was only confused by Niall’s explanation that Twig and I had met whilst surfing in Cape Town! She was incredibly chatty and funny, telling us of “exotic” belly dancers where one puts money in the cleavage and can get to dance. The dudes, to their credit, weren’t very interested by this. They were more interested in where the young tourist females would hang out for a little bit of a razzle!
With perfect hindsight, we discovered that she was stalling. She was making intermittent phone calls to her man and in retrospect, he must have been telling her to keep us there. The man of the house arrives! And proceeds to tell us that he has no room, but is shuffling someone around and is making a plan for the remaining three to stay at the next door hotel for the evening and then transfer over the following evening – typical Egyptian mentality! This was after we had taken a look at a three bedroom room that he was suggesting all six of us sleep in and had politely declined with sheer incredulity at the logistics of physically doing that.
Then came the smooth sell. We paid 300 Egyptian pounds for a day’s guided tour of the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens. It was impressive stuff, but the guide turned out to be little more than a babysitter as she wasn’t allowed into the tombs to explain anything. We were also seriously embarrassed by how much we had overpaid and endlessly frustrated by every Tom, Dick and Abdul trying to sell us some cheap tourist garb.
13 January – The Emperor's Clothes!
When preparing for this adventure, I had imagined that we would have endless time to ourselves. I had believed that there would be at least a couple of hours everyday that we’d need to kill with our own writing or other amusements. Not so. Yesterday, on day 4, we cycled 160km! It was a crazy day! We were relatively strong too. At 150km Gareth had a blowout on his front tyre taking him to the floor pretty quickly. It sobered some of the bravado we were beginning to feel. These roads are extremely busy - you continuously have the feeling that you are about to witness a head-on collision. The vehicles always seem to miss each other, but its hairy cycling.
We lost our police escort somewhere between Sohag and Nag Hammadi – This was a welcome change on my part! The police had insisted on driving right on my left shoulder shouting “Go Deeannna!” in between cat whistles and laughter.
As a woman in this country, it is easy to become paranoid. A policeman told me never to wear shorts (I have to wear leg warmers over cycling shorts, all day, every day) and when in town, I normally have a bandana, always long pants and long sleeves. Esmeralda, a Dutch woman we met at the Sudanese embassy in Cairo, had warned me of this too. In particular, she suggested I actually identify a husband, always wear my “wedding ring” and that the men would need to be fairly strong in their defence of me. I took these comments with a pinch of salt – I believe I am a well-travelled woman and can hold my own! Five days into the cycle, I have been asked for telephone numbers and email addresses, been subjected to paparazzi style camera phones, been groped during a photo by a policeman with an AK47 slung over his shoulder, had an old man lunge at me, and a seriously old man wink at me with his hand on his crotch. Nothing has been hostile, but I feel like I am cycling in the emperor’s clothes!
Anyway, at some point yesterday the police disappeared and for the first time we were left fending for ourselves. However, a local man who drove a bling blue motorbike with the words “love machine” on the back, escorted us on their behalf! Now, we have got pretty good at cycling in a pelaton and when acting as a team, we can make steady progress. But this man decided to join the actual pelaton and cycle behind me with less than a meter between his motorbike wheel and my back pannier. The whole time he was gesturing and laughing. Ollie actually had to get a little feisty with him just so that he would back off a bit!
We stopped at a little town called Nag Hammadi and had a lunch of cheese, tuna and bully beef on pita. In a short while we had gathered thirty odd men and boys that had come to witness this unfamiliar sight. They would stand less than two meters away and stare at us. Their eyes penetrate. I know it is simple curiosity and is something that we will need to get used to, but it is a little awkward!
After lunch we set off again complete with a convoy of motorbikes and beaten out bicycles. Half of them were children who really just wanted to chat, throwing out the standard lines: “What is your name? Welcome to Egypt!” and “I love you!” as you cycled on. There was mayhem. My stress levels rose. The group was being separated, Denis was cycling along trying to get sugar cane out of a passing truck (!), and a kid with a flat tyre insisted on cycling into my panniers! I nearly lost my cool entirely.
My solution was to cycle onwards, catch one of the team up ahead, and proceed to solve the problems of life and love. Such is life on the road!
We arrived in Qena at 6 o’clock, went out in town for the best sheesh kebabs I have tasted yet, and were in bed by 9pm. A great night’s sleep, ended in the morning by the prayers and car horns. What lies ahead?
We lost our police escort somewhere between Sohag and Nag Hammadi – This was a welcome change on my part! The police had insisted on driving right on my left shoulder shouting “Go Deeannna!” in between cat whistles and laughter.
As a woman in this country, it is easy to become paranoid. A policeman told me never to wear shorts (I have to wear leg warmers over cycling shorts, all day, every day) and when in town, I normally have a bandana, always long pants and long sleeves. Esmeralda, a Dutch woman we met at the Sudanese embassy in Cairo, had warned me of this too. In particular, she suggested I actually identify a husband, always wear my “wedding ring” and that the men would need to be fairly strong in their defence of me. I took these comments with a pinch of salt – I believe I am a well-travelled woman and can hold my own! Five days into the cycle, I have been asked for telephone numbers and email addresses, been subjected to paparazzi style camera phones, been groped during a photo by a policeman with an AK47 slung over his shoulder, had an old man lunge at me, and a seriously old man wink at me with his hand on his crotch. Nothing has been hostile, but I feel like I am cycling in the emperor’s clothes!
Anyway, at some point yesterday the police disappeared and for the first time we were left fending for ourselves. However, a local man who drove a bling blue motorbike with the words “love machine” on the back, escorted us on their behalf! Now, we have got pretty good at cycling in a pelaton and when acting as a team, we can make steady progress. But this man decided to join the actual pelaton and cycle behind me with less than a meter between his motorbike wheel and my back pannier. The whole time he was gesturing and laughing. Ollie actually had to get a little feisty with him just so that he would back off a bit!
We stopped at a little town called Nag Hammadi and had a lunch of cheese, tuna and bully beef on pita. In a short while we had gathered thirty odd men and boys that had come to witness this unfamiliar sight. They would stand less than two meters away and stare at us. Their eyes penetrate. I know it is simple curiosity and is something that we will need to get used to, but it is a little awkward!
After lunch we set off again complete with a convoy of motorbikes and beaten out bicycles. Half of them were children who really just wanted to chat, throwing out the standard lines: “What is your name? Welcome to Egypt!” and “I love you!” as you cycled on. There was mayhem. My stress levels rose. The group was being separated, Denis was cycling along trying to get sugar cane out of a passing truck (!), and a kid with a flat tyre insisted on cycling into my panniers! I nearly lost my cool entirely.
My solution was to cycle onwards, catch one of the team up ahead, and proceed to solve the problems of life and love. Such is life on the road!
We arrived in Qena at 6 o’clock, went out in town for the best sheesh kebabs I have tasted yet, and were in bed by 9pm. A great night’s sleep, ended in the morning by the prayers and car horns. What lies ahead?
10 January – A matter of Faith
Asyut is a small town where Jesus apparently spent some time as a child. As a result, there is a strong Christian base in the town and it has made headlines for being a hotspot for religious fighting. There was some story involving a tourist being killed in Asyut a while back, and I had heard reports that this was a place that one was considered wise to avoid, particularly if one was female. It was, therefore, with a fair level of apprehension that I approached the small Egyptian town.
However, it goes without saying that my concerns were miniscule in comparison to that of the tourism police. Since we started this trip, the Egyptian police have been a constant presence. We would cycle for an hour or two with one set of policemen, cross a jurisdiction border, spend a couple of minutes trying to communicate in seriously limited Arabic, and then cycle on with the next set of policemen in convoy. They dictate where we sleep and what level of interaction we have with the locals. In fact, it is not unusual for a herd of children to be scared off by an intimidating movement from one of the heavily armed policemen.
But Asyut has pleasantly surprised me. We are staying in a simple, but clean, very budget hotel. We are eating well on dinners of sheesh kebabs and boiled eggs for breakfast. In fact, we decided to spend a rest day here today to let our legs and backsides recover and to catch up on some communications time. Asyut is a town of no tourists and friendly individuals whose first question is “Are you Christian?” Religion is an essential part of life for the Egyptians we have encountered. And the more I meet and the more we talk openly, the more I realise that the fundamentals of the faiths are so similar and the hearts of all are essentially in the same place. I continue to learn from these people.
However, it goes without saying that my concerns were miniscule in comparison to that of the tourism police. Since we started this trip, the Egyptian police have been a constant presence. We would cycle for an hour or two with one set of policemen, cross a jurisdiction border, spend a couple of minutes trying to communicate in seriously limited Arabic, and then cycle on with the next set of policemen in convoy. They dictate where we sleep and what level of interaction we have with the locals. In fact, it is not unusual for a herd of children to be scared off by an intimidating movement from one of the heavily armed policemen.
But Asyut has pleasantly surprised me. We are staying in a simple, but clean, very budget hotel. We are eating well on dinners of sheesh kebabs and boiled eggs for breakfast. In fact, we decided to spend a rest day here today to let our legs and backsides recover and to catch up on some communications time. Asyut is a town of no tourists and friendly individuals whose first question is “Are you Christian?” Religion is an essential part of life for the Egyptians we have encountered. And the more I meet and the more we talk openly, the more I realise that the fundamentals of the faiths are so similar and the hearts of all are essentially in the same place. I continue to learn from these people.
8 January 2008 – Today!
I am in a room which has a semblance of order, two sleeping men, and three fully laden bicycles. Today three years of dreams will find their reality and we start cycling to Cape Town. 12 500 km. That is longer than I can imagine and holds endless possibility for the spectacularly good and spectacularly awful.
My Bicycle feels a little like a motorbike. Last night, fully laden, I sat on it. I wanted to do a little test run down the corridor of the hotel to check that all was in order and that I could actually ride it with all my life packed onto it. It was a very scary experience! - I have a sleeping mat tucked under the front handlebars, a small pannier in the front with a few personals, and a 25 litre pannier bag on the back wheel which has a sleeping bag and spare tyre bunjied on. I then have a camelpak backpack with things like travel guides, warm clothes and a few others. In my back pannier I am carrying the team computer on which I am typing out this blog. It is a tiny, 7 inch computer with a fold-up keyboard. I have 2 litres of water on my back and another 2 on the bike. I figure my bike is carrying 30 kilograms extra weight, which in effect, means so do my legs – a scary thought!
My Bicycle feels a little like a motorbike. Last night, fully laden, I sat on it. I wanted to do a little test run down the corridor of the hotel to check that all was in order and that I could actually ride it with all my life packed onto it. It was a very scary experience! - I have a sleeping mat tucked under the front handlebars, a small pannier in the front with a few personals, and a 25 litre pannier bag on the back wheel which has a sleeping bag and spare tyre bunjied on. I then have a camelpak backpack with things like travel guides, warm clothes and a few others. In my back pannier I am carrying the team computer on which I am typing out this blog. It is a tiny, 7 inch computer with a fold-up keyboard. I have 2 litres of water on my back and another 2 on the bike. I figure my bike is carrying 30 kilograms extra weight, which in effect, means so do my legs – a scary thought!
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Go Alice Go..
I am in a room which has a semblance of order, two sleeping men, and three fully laden bicycles. Today three years of dreams will find their reality and we start cycling to Cape Town. 12 500 km. That is longer than I can imagine and holds endless possibility for the spectacularly good and spectacularly awful.
I fell off a camel yesterday. All was well and despite the ridiculously bad camel breath, and a saddle less comfortable than that of my bicycle, I was relatively happy with my young Egyptian groom and his camel. With the words “lean back” and a sudden movement likened only to that of a mechanical bull, I was on top of the two meter plus beast, and loping down the streets of Giza.
We paid 50 Egyptian pounds to our guide and found ourselves within a cordoned off area designating the beginning of the desert – complete with sand dunes and pyramids. Phenomenal! It was only when we were given the reigns to our camels and told to race them, that my Alice the camel who has two humps… decided to “go Alice go!” I neatly started into a gentle trot, even practising my early equestrian upbringing. But I was flawed when Alice suddenly changed gait into what felt like a canter but was probably nothing more than a sidestep from Niall’s camel that was charging up behind. I simply couldn’t take it any longer and did a neat sideways roll to the floor. Camels are pretty high. And there’s a certain wooden peg on the saddle that makes life fairly inconvenient when one is in the process of falling.
My pride bruised more than my leg – which was to shortly turn all shades of purple – I righted myself and realigned my clothes just in time to watch Niall suffer a worse fate as he took a forward roll into the sand. He got up a little dazed and confused and seriously lucky to have escaped a certain neck injury. My pride recovered.
We are closer in years to the birth of Christ than the pyramids are. I stood in front of these monumental structures and was unable to comprehend their age. Some of the team went inside the tombs and one of the smaller pyramids, I was content to simply sit at the foot of this giant tomb and try to understand the magnitude of what I was looking at. In addition, it allowed me to recover from the fall which was starting to make itself a more tangible memory!
I fell off a camel yesterday. All was well and despite the ridiculously bad camel breath, and a saddle less comfortable than that of my bicycle, I was relatively happy with my young Egyptian groom and his camel. With the words “lean back” and a sudden movement likened only to that of a mechanical bull, I was on top of the two meter plus beast, and loping down the streets of Giza.
We paid 50 Egyptian pounds to our guide and found ourselves within a cordoned off area designating the beginning of the desert – complete with sand dunes and pyramids. Phenomenal! It was only when we were given the reigns to our camels and told to race them, that my Alice the camel who has two humps… decided to “go Alice go!” I neatly started into a gentle trot, even practising my early equestrian upbringing. But I was flawed when Alice suddenly changed gait into what felt like a canter but was probably nothing more than a sidestep from Niall’s camel that was charging up behind. I simply couldn’t take it any longer and did a neat sideways roll to the floor. Camels are pretty high. And there’s a certain wooden peg on the saddle that makes life fairly inconvenient when one is in the process of falling.
My pride bruised more than my leg – which was to shortly turn all shades of purple – I righted myself and realigned my clothes just in time to watch Niall suffer a worse fate as he took a forward roll into the sand. He got up a little dazed and confused and seriously lucky to have escaped a certain neck injury. My pride recovered.
We are closer in years to the birth of Christ than the pyramids are. I stood in front of these monumental structures and was unable to comprehend their age. Some of the team went inside the tombs and one of the smaller pyramids, I was content to simply sit at the foot of this giant tomb and try to understand the magnitude of what I was looking at. In addition, it allowed me to recover from the fall which was starting to make itself a more tangible memory!
Hazy dawn
I wake early, hoping to catch the morning prayers echoing over Cairo – I wish to deliver my humble request for the appearance of a certain red wallet left in Heathrow security yesterday morning. The rectangular masses seem to float suspended in the early haze. Satellite dishes aloft every roof and clinging to the sides of every building, face the sun, offering prayers carried on the sound of car horns.
On driving into Cairo we gained perspective of the size of the city – endless. Now, as I sit on a balcony overlooking the northern capital, I understand the phrase “concrete jungle” with a definitive level of appreciation. This is something far beyond anything I have seen. If Africa has a heartbeat, this is a major artery. The city is noisy and chaotic with no rules to speak of, but it heaves with life.
God please send me my wallet :)
On driving into Cairo we gained perspective of the size of the city – endless. Now, as I sit on a balcony overlooking the northern capital, I understand the phrase “concrete jungle” with a definitive level of appreciation. This is something far beyond anything I have seen. If Africa has a heartbeat, this is a major artery. The city is noisy and chaotic with no rules to speak of, but it heaves with life.
God please send me my wallet :)
Friday, January 4, 2008
Bicycles..
Bicycles. Everywhere. And if it’s not some form of bike part, tool or accessory, it’s spandex. Nice.
We joked that it would have been great to enter “professional cyclist” on our landing cards – it sounds a fair deal more exciting than “finance”, and ironically not all that far from the truth. But the welcome could not have been more enthusiastic. The Irish side of our contingent have played out of their cycling boots – and organised superb contact with the Irish ambassador in Cairo. His team wasted no efforts in looking after us from meeting us at the airport, walking us through customs, taking us to our hotel that they had organised, providing us with the heroic services of a driver Mahadi – who has had the equivalent task of looking after what must seem like six noisy toddlers, and then hosting us in style at the ambassador’s home last night.
Sudanese visas are shrouded in mystery. We had discovered that Cairo is the only place to collect a Sudanese visa without it passing through Khartoum. We have landed on blogs that amount to plaintiff calls from Addis saying that they have been camping at the Sudanese embassy for months and have had no luck as yet. My suggestion? – Come to Cairo! We walked in at 11, armed with letters from the Department of Foreign Affairs, letters from Millennium Promise, letters from contacts in Khartoum, a detailed itinerary and a good dose of irish charm. It appears that will do just about anything. And so after high chaos levels and a never-ending barrage of handshakes and “shukran”s – three o’clock saw a photo opportunity with our new-found Sudanese mate and the team displaying our Sudanese trophies! Yeehaa!
With one less barrier to starting a certain level of nerves have established themselves. Today is Monday. We start Tuesday. We have a day of pyramids and camel rides – not to mention press releases, final contacts, and packing the bike – a monumental task in itself.
We joked that it would have been great to enter “professional cyclist” on our landing cards – it sounds a fair deal more exciting than “finance”, and ironically not all that far from the truth. But the welcome could not have been more enthusiastic. The Irish side of our contingent have played out of their cycling boots – and organised superb contact with the Irish ambassador in Cairo. His team wasted no efforts in looking after us from meeting us at the airport, walking us through customs, taking us to our hotel that they had organised, providing us with the heroic services of a driver Mahadi – who has had the equivalent task of looking after what must seem like six noisy toddlers, and then hosting us in style at the ambassador’s home last night.
Sudanese visas are shrouded in mystery. We had discovered that Cairo is the only place to collect a Sudanese visa without it passing through Khartoum. We have landed on blogs that amount to plaintiff calls from Addis saying that they have been camping at the Sudanese embassy for months and have had no luck as yet. My suggestion? – Come to Cairo! We walked in at 11, armed with letters from the Department of Foreign Affairs, letters from Millennium Promise, letters from contacts in Khartoum, a detailed itinerary and a good dose of irish charm. It appears that will do just about anything. And so after high chaos levels and a never-ending barrage of handshakes and “shukran”s – three o’clock saw a photo opportunity with our new-found Sudanese mate and the team displaying our Sudanese trophies! Yeehaa!
With one less barrier to starting a certain level of nerves have established themselves. Today is Monday. We start Tuesday. We have a day of pyramids and camel rides – not to mention press releases, final contacts, and packing the bike – a monumental task in itself.
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